


End of Shift (Barba x female reader)

by adrianna_m_scovill



Series: Barba x Reader [1]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: F/M, Office Sex, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 01:25:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14250081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianna_m_scovill/pseuds/adrianna_m_scovill
Summary: This was a request for a Barba x reader fic - not really my forte, but I gave it a go. The request was for Barba and his new assistant ("you") working late one night in the office...





	End of Shift (Barba x female reader)

When you walked back into the office, he looked up, and his gaze skimmed down the length of your body. He swallowed and frowned, quickly turning his attention back to his notes. You smiled; you knew he wanted you—maybe not as much as you wanted him, because you weren’t sure that was possible. You’d never wanted anyone, or anything, as much as you wanted Rafael Barba.

You’d wanted him at first sight, two weeks earlier, but the attraction had only grown stronger since. Now, he was sitting there in his white shirt—unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up—and dark suspenders; his tie had been discarded, because it was late. Everyone else had gone home for the day, but not Barba. No one ever worked as long, or hard, as he did.

And you knew you shouldn’t distract him. His work was important, and in the two weeks you’d been filling in as his assistant, you’d seen that firsthand. But this was your last chance. If you left and went home, you might never see him again. You didn’t think you’d be able to spend the rest of your life wondering _what if_. You had to take a chance, because as scary as the thought was, the idea of _not_ trying was worse.

“It’s late,” he said, and his low voice sent a little shiver through you. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.” He was bent over his notes, scribbling furiously, seemingly only half-aware of your presence. You knew it was an act, though. He was trying not to look at you. You’d been giving him hints, some less subtle than others, for weeks, even though you’d figured out quickly enough that he would never act on his attraction to you. Not while he was your boss, and certainly not _in the office_ while he was your boss.

“I already clocked out,” you said, hoping to draw his green eyes up to your face.

He did glance up, but only for a moment, with his brow furrowed. “Oh,” he said, and you could see the disappointment that he tried to hide. “Good, then. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turned his attention back to his notes.

“Actually, today’s my last day,” you said.

“Okay,” he said, crossing out a line and writing something above it. You saw his pen falter, and his forehead crinkle, as your words belatedly broke through his preoccupation. His gaze slid up to yours, and you had to remind yourself to breathe normally. “It is?” he asked, his frown deepening as he regarded you.

You nodded. “Two weeks. Your regular assistant will be back tomorrow.”

“Right,” he said. “I’d forgotten…”

You felt a rush of pleasure at his words. You’d been doing a good enough job that he hadn’t missed his normal assistant, and you were glad. You’d been working hard—harder than you’d ever worked at a temp job, wanting only to impress him and earn his respect. Yes, you wanted him to run his hands over your body. You wanted to taste his mouth and run your fingers through his hair. You wanted him to push you onto the desk—

Yes, you wanted him, but you wanted his respect, too, because you’d come to realize that he was the most honorable man you’d ever met.

“Well, all the more reason to cut out, then,” he said, but he sounded unsure, now. He set his pen down and, after a moment, leaned back in his chair, still studying you. The movement pulled at his suspenders and flattened his shirt against his stomach, and you swallowed, feeling heat creeping into your cheeks. In the glow of his desk lamp you could see the curls of hair trying to escape the top of his shirt. The muscles in his forearms rippled when he put his elbows on the armrests and steepled his fingers.

You realized you were staring and jerked your eyes back up to his face, your cheeks flaming hotter than ever. In spite of all your attempts at flirting, you’d been trying to act professional while the two of you were working together. Trying to act _normal_ , as though your first sight of him hadn’t turned your brain into mush. You thought you’d been doing a pretty good job—Well, you _must’ve_ been, since he wasn’t chomping at the bit to get his regular assistant back.

He was looking at you, now, _really_ looking at you, and there was a speculative look in his eyes that made your lower belly tighten. You’d been hoping for a look like that for two weeks, and had resigned yourself to the idea that it might never come, that he wasn’t interested in anything other than a professional relationship in spite of a mutual attraction.

But that look—you knew what he was thinking. You’d been training yourself to anticipate his every thought and need—to know what file he would need, to keep his coffee flowing, to know when he would need a snack, to remember where he’d put his phone and briefcase and anything else he set down, to remind him about his appointments and filter out the calls and messages that he didn’t want or need.

You’d learned to read his body language, and his different frowns, learned to recognize when he’d forgotten or misplaced something or was simply hungry. You’d spent countless hours, studying him, mentally logging his micro-expressions, and you’d done your best to convince yourself that it was nothing more than a part of your job. You couldn’t fool yourself, though. You’d wanted him from first sight, but it had only taken a couple of days for you to realize that it was more than physical for you. Yes, the way his suspenders kept his trousers snug against his ass was enticing. Yes, the way his hair got more unkempt the longer the day wore on was adorable. Yes, the way his shirts stretched tight across his stomach when he moved was arousing.

But in addition to being the most honorable, he was probably the smartest person you’d ever met, and that was as much of a turn-on as the salt-and-pepper stubble that roughened his jaw by the end of the day. He was cranky but considerate. He was usually distracted, but not intentionally dismissive of you—even when he seemed barely aware of your presence, he managed not to make you feel like an unimportant office fixture like many of your previous employers had.

You had his full attention now, though, and your stomach squirmed as you fought the urge to fidget beneath his scrutiny. It was late; there was no one else in the building, except a few janitors that would stay well away from Barba’s office while he was working. You’d punched out for the day and returned to his office, and you knew that he understood why. He could see the desire burning in your eyes; he was far too observant to miss something so obvious.

His gaze skimmed down the length of your body, again, and you felt a rush of pleasure. He cleared his throat and looked at the papers on his desk, a frown wrinkling his forehead.

“You’ve done a good job,” he said, sounding out of sorts. You could understand that; he wasn’t accustomed to offering compliments, which made this gruff assessment feel that much sweeter. “I’ll…be sure we let the agency know…” He trailed off, picking up the pen to tap it against the file, still frowning at his desk.

“Thanks,” you said, willing him to look at you again.

After a few seconds, he did. And you knew. You could see it in his face—shining in his eyes, ticking in the tightness of his jaw, in the way he was gripping his pen. You weren’t alone in your inappropriate musings. He wanted you, and the knowledge filled you with warmth.

Even now, as he realized what your words meant—you’d clocked out for your last time, and he was no longer your employer—you knew that he would not proposition you. Nothing would happen unless you could find the courage to initiate.

Gathering your resolve, you walked forward, watching his face to gauge his reaction. He tracked your progress with his bright gaze, and you could see the hungry look in his eyes. You sat on the edge of the desk beside his chair; the movement hiked your skirt up your thigh, but he kept his eyes on your face. His hands had moved to his thighs and were fisted there.

“Something I can help you with?” he asked. His voice was low and husky, with just a trace of amusement, but you could see the caution in his eyes, now, too.

“I want you,” you said, surprising yourself. You could feel the blush creeping up your neck. You hadn’t thought you’d have the courage to blurt it out so bluntly, but the thought of _not_ taking this chance was too much to bear.

His eyes widened in surprise, but there was something else. He liked your directness, you could tell. The corners of his mouth curved upward, and the lines in his face softened as he regarded you in silence. You chewed your lip for a moment, gathering your courage. You knew he wanted you as he stared up at you. You just had to be bold, brave.

You straightened and moved forward, pushing his armrests up. You straddled his lap before you could talk yourself out of it. His hands went to your waist to steady you, but his eyes were still on your face. His lips were parted, now—partly in surprise, mostly in desire. You leaned your head forward, needing desperately to taste him. He met your kiss, opening his mouth to you, and you shifted forward, needing to be closer. You could feel his growing arousal, and as you moved against him, he made a small sound in his throat, his hands tightening on your waist.

He turned his face away for a moment, and murmured, “God, you feel good.”

“I want to feel _you_ ,” you told him, flattening your hands against his chest and tucking your fingers under his suspenders.

He said your name on a groan—the first time he’d called you by your first name—and you felt a rush of heady pleasure. His hands slid to your thighs, and you could feel the heat of his palms against your bare skin at the edge of your hiked skirt.

You bent your head forward to capture his mouth in another kiss, and he plunged his tongue into your mouth, stealing your breath and ability to reason. You were fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, and you could feel his muscles ripple as your knuckles made their way down his stomach. You tugged the shirt from his waistband, pushing it open to his suspenders, and slipped your hands beneath his undershirt, needing to feel his skin against your fingers. He made another sound, and you swallowed it eagerly.

You pulled your mouth from his and ducked your head to nuzzle the prickly skin of his throat, loving the feel of his rough stubble against your lips and cheek. His hands were under your skirt, his hot fingers splayed against your hips, and you shifted forward on his lap as you felt his thumbs massaging your inner thighs. It was your turn to groan, and you felt him smile as you pressed a kiss to his throat.

“I want you,” you murmured against his ear, and you felt his shiver, felt his hands tighten on your thighs. A moment later, he slid a hand higher, and you felt his fingers brush against the center of your damp panties. You arched against him, gasping, and he turned his head to capture your mouth with his.

He rubbed his hand against you, and your thighs tightened against his as you tried to press impossibly closer. You wanted to call out his name, but he had his tongue in your mouth. You pulled a hand from his shirt, sliding it down to the bulge in his pants, wanting to make him feel as good as he was making you feel, but he took hold of your wrist with his free hand—his grasp was gentle, but firm—and pulled your hand away. You made a sound of frustration, but it quickly turned into a moan as his fingers massaged your panties against your most sensitive spot, bringing you—already—to the brink of climax.

He broke free of your kiss, and you both drew ragged breaths. He put his hand to the back of your neck, gently pulling your mouth to his throat, and you obediently—wordlessly—suckled the sensitive skin there. He tipped his head up, closing his eyes, and moved his hand to the small of your back. He held you in place as his fingers rubbed harder and faster, and you could feel your body trembling. You sucked at his throat, loving the taste of his skin and the sting of his stubble against your tongue.

“I want you inside me,” you groaned beneath his chin, but you weren’t sure your words were coherent. You could feel yourself beginning to come apart, and soon you would shatter into a million pieces.

“Patience,” he murmured. “ _Tenemos toda la noche, nena_.”

You grabbed his shoulders, clutching at him as your hips bucked. He held you steady, his hand firm on your lower back, and you felt yourself splintering as you thrust yourself against his fingers. You buried your face against the crook of his shoulder as your orgasm rocked you—you’d never felt anything so intense, and you knew it wasn’t just because your legs were levered apart over his thighs. It was _him_.

When he finally withdrew his hand from your skirt, you were collapsed against him, your labored breathing bordering on sobs from the intensity of the wave that had just torn through you. Your muscles felt weak and quivery, and you had tears leaking from your eyes. Your hands were fisted around his shirt at his shoulders, but you could feel his erection straining against his trousers, and you lowered an arm, once more reaching for his fly.

“Not here,” he said, his voice low and rough with arousal. “Come on, _nena_ , let’s go.”

“Go?” you asked, managing to lift your head to meet his dilated pupils. “Don’t you have work?”

He chuckled. His hands were heavy on your hips. “You think I would’ve worked all these late nights if you weren’t here?” He laughed again at the look on your face, and bent his head to place a quick kiss on your parted lips. “Paperwork can be done at home, _hermosa_ ,” he said.

“So can I, now that you’re not my boss,” you quipped, and when he threw his head back and laughed, you took the opportunity to once more nuzzle his throat the way he liked.

“Do you have a car?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good, because I don’t relish the idea of getting into a taxi like this.”

You laughed as you pushed back and slid, shakily, off his lap. He held onto you to steady you, but your legs—surprisingly—didn’t buckle. “I’ll drive as quickly as possible,” you said, and his face split into a grin.

 


End file.
